


Notes On Foreheads, But Also On Love

by iridescentglow



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryland and Alex write each other notes… but fail to communicate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes On Foreheads, But Also On Love

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** drug use
> 
> **Author notes:** Thank you to callsigns for the beta.
> 
> This story will only make sense if you know that Ryland and Alex went to high school together, lost touch for seven years, and then found out they both lived in Brooklyn. The rest of what I've written is fiction.

** _Chapter 1_ **

 

"You ever have that perfect moment? That moment where you feel like… the stars must be aligned, the universe must be smiling. Things just fall into place."

"No, never," Ryland says decisively, leaning his head against the couch and closing his eyes. He pauses for a moment, smiles, and then adds, "Should I?"

It's the invitation Alex needs to keep talking and Ryland is glad. It's late, he's tired and he wants to listen to Alex talk. Usually, Alex is the quietest member of their group—bullied or bored into silence by people (okay, _Gabe_) who will shout their opinions louder, more forcefully. But when it's late and he's stoned and it's just the two of them, Alex's tongue loosens; a door in his brain unlatches and welled-up thoughts spill out. Ryland likes these times the most. Even when Alex makes no fucking sense.

"You remember when we met?" asks Alex.

"Yeah. Miss Hart's math class." Ryland snorts, half a laugh, half an exclamation of pain at the memory. "What a psycho."

"I mean… when we met again," Alex says and Ryland hears him exhale hard. "Whole Foods?"

"…Sure." The word comes reluctantly. Ryland wonders where this is going; he wonders if some of Alex's thoughts shouldn't stay bitten back.

"You ever think that was fate—not like _fate_ fate." Alex corrects himself hastily. "But. Like… it meant something?"

Ryland opens his eyes, glancing over at Alex to gauge his expression. Alex looks uncomfortable, but determined. More than that, he looks like he wants something from Ryland.

"No," Ryland says and closes his eyes again.

"…Okay," Alex says in a low voice.

Ryland feels a light bounce as Alex levers himself up from the couch. Footsteps, and he's gone.

 

*

 

"You believe in fate?" Ryland asks Gabe the next day.

The conversation has lapsed and his mouth spits out the thought that's on the surface of the mind. When he sees Gabe's sly smile, he realizes that Gabe is absolutely the _wrong_ person to talk to about stuff like this.

"Totally," Gabe says, with a gravity belied by his grin, "fate is everywhere. Fate is powerful… it's undeniable." He snaps his fingers. "_Pow_erful. Unde_ni_able. I should write that down. I'm a genius."

Ryland shakes his head. "You're so full of shit."

 

*

 

Ryland and Alex write each other notes. It started in high school, obviously. But, as it turns out, real life can be just as boring as math class, so they reinstated the tradition. When, say, Nate is ranting about dolphins—

"…just that stupid smile. Why is it _smiling_? I don't get it. What other animal is born with a creepy fucking expression like that on its…"

—the notes can make an especially helpful distraction.

Ryland sinks into one of the bus's couches, nodding vaguely in Nate's direction. He swipes his phone from the table. There is a yellow Post-It stuck underneath. He smiles and settles in to read the note, which is written in Alex's small, crabbed hand:

_Nostalgia. People always get the definition wrong. It's not about missing the past; it's about missing home_ (underlined). _Lately, I've been wondering what the word for missing something that never happened could be. Seems close to nostalgia. But not quite. What do words mean anyway? Definitions change. I guess my nostalgia is yearning for a feeling I never had._

"Downer," Ryland mutters sardonically, but he's frowning, thinking about Alex's words.

The day devolves into the usual routine of sound-check and killing time. Ryland and Alex wander to the store and buy more alcohol than man should ever consume in a single evening (Ryland guesses it will all be gone by eleven). They talk, variously, about Jonathon Safran Foer and _Xena: Warrior Princess_ and whether Steve Carell is funnier than Ricky Gervais. They do not talk about the note. That's the rule—a sort of unspoken caveat to baring your soul in note-form is that you never have to bring it up in public. Note topics can only be responded to with other notes.

Much later that night, after Alex has crashed out in his bunk, Ryland chooses an orange Post-It and scrawls his own note:

_"All the world's a stage / And all the men and women merely players" (Shakespeare). What is reality? Epistemology's a motherbitch._

He sticks the note to Alex's forehead, half-hoping Alex will wake up and want to play Xbox with him. Alex snuffles, fidgeting in his sleep, but he does not wake up. Ryland sighs and cracks his neck. (He was in a production of As You Like It once, in a particularly shitty theatre, which had a leak in the roof that no one was prepared to fix. The audience member in seat 24 was the unlucky one who got wet if it started to rain during the performance. Luckily for #24, the play only ran for three days. Then the director tried to kill himself [by hanging himself from the theatre's rafters… in the middle of the matinee performance] and was committed. The rest of the company gave it up as a bad job, chipped in to buy the recuperating director flowers, and went their separate ways. That was the first and last time Ryland ever performed Shakespeare professionally.)

 

*

 

Ryland talks to Nate the next day, once Nate's dolphin obsession has worn itself out.

"We didn't see each other for seven years," he says. "Then we find out we live in the same neighborhood. Don't you think that's weird?"

"No." Nate screws up his face, thinking. "I found this kid I knew in grade school last week." As if sensing Ryland's lack of comprehension, he prompts, "You know, like, on Facebook? Yeah, I found Gary. And this hot girl who used to babysit for me. Theresa." He pauses and grins. "Still hot."

Ryland sighs.

 

*

 

(_You ever have that perfect moment?_)

It was eleven a.m. on a Saturday morning in May and the line at Whole Foods inched forward torturously. Ryland just wanted poppy-seed bagels, a copy of the _Times_ and some peaches. It wasn't much to ask. It wasn't so much that he deserved the trial of patience and virtue that Whole Foods was requiring of him. Kids screamed in close proximity; the leering, crazed faces of their parents screamed right back at them. The cashier's line remained stationary. A small boy began throwing apples, skidding them across the floor with gleeful abandon. A first, then a second apple hit Ryland in the shins. He felt caught between the reactions of _ow-I'm-in-PAIN!_ and sheer disbelief as the boy's mother only mildly reprimanded him. Ryland made an silent, exasperated face, choking back a string of swearwords.

(_That moment where you feel like… the stars must be aligned…_)

The line lurched forward mercifully. The crowd at the head of the line cleared as a large family took their groceries and moved to the exit. Ryland was now second in line. The old man in front of him tottered forward. He looked unsteady on his feet yet handy with his cane and Ryland wondered warily if his next trial was to be knocked to the floor by an errant swipe of the man's walking stick.

He looked up to find the cashier was staring not at the old man, but at him. The cashier stared and Ryland stared back.

(_…the universe must be smiling. Things just fall into place._)

"Alex." He found the word in his mouth, where it seemed to have appeared by magic, its sound warm and familiar against his tongue.

"Ryland," Alex said. All of a sudden, he broke into a grin.

Ryland felt himself unexpectedly beaming, too. He imagined the two of them as they must appear from afar: identically goggle-eyed; a near mirror-image of surprise and delight.

"Alex."

"Ryland."

"_Alex_."

"I'd like paper," the old man said loudly. "Paper, not plastic."

 

*

 

Ryland doesn't think about the future much, but when he tries to imagine himself at forty, (fifty, sixty,) the only constant is Alex by his side, guitar in hand. They'll grow crazy beards and cover Cat Stevens songs for tiny bar crowds. It's the happiest future he can imagine. Sometimes he wishes it were still just the two of them, playing their own songs at shitty shows in Brooklyn. Before Cobra Starship, their universe was tiny, satisfyingly so. They spent their time happily bumping into each other, like uncoordinated planets. He remembers Alex's comment about nostalgia. He always feels homesick when they're out on the road, but every time he returns to New York, it feels subtly different; a little less like his home. He wonders if he's homesick for something other than his apartment, his city. _A yearning for a feeling I never had._

 

\---

 

** _Chapter 2_ **

 

The next day, quite abruptly, Ryland wakes up feeling like shit. It's not depression, it's just a kind of low-grade "Hate My Life" feeling. He doesn't, of course, hate his life. He's a musician—even better, he's a rockstar. Playing to thousands of people every night (at least five of whom actually seem to know his name) sure beats getting up onstage in front of an audience Off-Off-Broadway, who would much rather see _Cats_ than a piece of experimental theatre. But today he can't stand the lurch of the bus. The rhythmic drone of the engine gives him a headache. The open road, visible through the windshield, stretching ahead endlessly, seems maddening instead of exhilarating.

Alex hasn't replied to his latest note yet. In his current cynical frame of mind, it feels like a dismissal. In actual fact, Alex probably hasn't replied because, on the last note, Ryland was exercising his God-given right to be a smartass. He doesn't even know anything about Philosophy. Of course, Alex knows that he doesn't know anything about Philosophy. They know each other too goddamn well.

Ryland decides to write Alex another note. Most days, the note-exchanging feels playful, irreverent. Usually, it's a happy distraction. Today, it's making his head pound. It's clogging up too much of his headspace.

"Fuck," he mutters, and then starts writing, before he can think about it any longer.

The note he leaves tacked to the underside of Alex's journal reads, _What's the cure for ennui?_ Ryland would really like to know.

He lingers for a moment, his fingers itching. Finally, he tears himself away from the urge to read the journal. Invasion of privacy, _blah blah blah_. Alex is so careless with the thing, Ryland sometimes wonders if he leaves it lying around just to tempt him into reading it.

(Okay, so the truth is, Ryland _did_ read it. Once. Months ago. It was actually pretty boring. Mostly, it consisted of exhaustive accounts of what Alex ate each day—as if a historian in the future will really be interested in _that_. There were a few people mentioned, their names carefully coded, but Ryland couldn't figure out which one might be him. Then it occurred to him that maybe Alex never mentioned him at all. That was when he let the journal fall closed and decided, belatedly, to start respecting Alex's privacy.)

The day expands into the buzz of playing, filling up with the roar of the crowd. It contracts again when they leave the stage and the excitement wears off. Ryland feels the morning's gloom return, sinking heavily into his bones. He scuffs around backstage for a while, playing the loner malcontent. The Armor For Sleep baseline that rolls off the stage provides a good counterpoint for his dramatized melancholia.

Then, to his surprise, he finds a yellow Post-It lurking between the frets of his guitar. It wasn't there twenty minutes ago.

_Love is the cure for ennui._

Ryland rolls his eyes.

Love is boring. Love is wretched. Love is fucking overrated. It's overrated fucking.

The thoughts roll through his head, cynical and reassuring. He can't bring himself to write any of them down, though. He sighs. The trouble is, he likes that Alex truly believes the steaming pile of dung about romance and love that he spouts. Sometimes he thinks Alex is an idiot. Sometimes he wonders if Alex is more enlightened than he'll ever be.

Ryland is aware of the whisper of clothing, the warmth of body heat as someone presses up against his back. It's Gabe and he's trying to read the note over Ryland's shoulder. Ryland's hand reflexively forms a fist, crumpling the note.

"How's it going?" Gabe asks. His voice is lazy and unconcerned—as if he weren't practically grinding against Ryland's ass.

"Today sucks," says Ryland, even though he suspects it's not just today.

"So let's go." Gabe lets out a low laugh. "Someplace else. Somewhere that's not today."

Gabe is like the poster child for recreational drug use, because he takes everything and it never seems to fuck him up—at least, no more than he intends. Hell, he's built a whole career out of one bad trip. Usually, Ryland steers clear. Beer and vodka and tequila suit him just fine and he'll deal with his liver when he's fifty.

Ryland hesitates. He spies Alex out of the corner of his eye. He's talking to Victoria and he looks happy, relaxed. He's wearing his contacts instead of glasses and Ryland could swear that he's sucking in his cheeks, making his face look more angular. _Like a bad Grecian bust_, Ryland thinks meanly. Alex's hair is carefully arranged, brushed forward like every other emo kid in the place. Alex doesn't fidget with it the way he used to when it more closely resembled a haystack. His metamorphosis came when Ryland wasn't paying attention. Ryland can't help but resent it slightly. The lumpy, bespectacled version of his best friend that grins awkwardly in his high school year book is gone, replaced. As his replacement shifts and morphs a little more every month, Ryland wonders if this Alex (version 2.0) will still need him the way his predecessor did.

Ryland turns to face Gabe. "Let's do it," he says.

They amble back to the bus and pass Alex and Victoria on their way. There's a lot of amiable smiling and nodding. Gabe pokes Victoria in the ribs and she swats him away with laughter. Ryland finds he has to make an effort to meet Alex's gaze. Alex blinks back at him, seemingly unconcerned. For a moment, Ryland thinks that Gabe will invite Alex and Victoria to join their party, but then he doesn't say anything and they move on. It's a private party, Ryland realizes. He feels tense from the effort of projecting an air of nonchalance. By contrast, Gabe actually _is_ nonchalant.

On the bus, Gabe places the tab on the tip of his tongue instead of just handing it to him. Ryland rolls his eyes at Gabe's ostentatious come-on. He kisses him and deliberately thinks of nothing. He feels the tab reach the back of his mouth. He pulls away from Gabe and swallows hard. Gabe takes off his shirt in one quick motion; he looks glassy-eyed and intent.

They fuck to pass the time until the Ecstasy hits.

 

\---

 

** _Chapter 3_ **

 

Victoria has _A Rule_: she doesn't date boys in bands. She won't fuck around. She's not the tour bicycle. She's not anything that anyone's entitled to. It's a whole manifesto-type thing. Ryland suspects that the subtext is: she won't fuck around with _Gabe_. Said manifesto apparently doesn't preclude making out with Nate. Ryland walked in on the two of them recently. They were sprawled on a couch, leisurely working their way to third base. Ryland raised his eyebrows and began to back out of the room. Victoria just flicked the hair out of her face, slowed the circular movements her fingers were making at the small of Nate's back, and looked at him. "What's going on?" she asked evenly, as if he'd walked in on them baking a cake.

Band relationships are a Catch-22 situation. You shouldn't start something with your bandmates, because you spend so much time in each other's company that when things go bad (and they _will_ go bad—just ask Elisa), the band stops functioning. But if not your bandmates, who else will be there when you extend your arm at three a.m.? That's what it is, of course: it's waking up lonely and reaching out for the first person you can find; someone who is not only willing to sleep with you, but might just understand you, too.

Fucked if you do; fucked if you don't.

Ryland has put a lot of thought into intra-band relationships. He knows what they are and what they never should be. He certainly doesn't mistake his _thing_ with Gabe for more than it is; they hook up sometimes and they don't talk about it afterwards. So he doesn't know why he's upset when the next couple he walks in on is Gabe and Alex.

It's a whole lot more incriminating than the earlier scene with Victoria and Nate. Alex is pressed up against the wall inside the tour bus, his pants around his ankles. His eyes are half-closed and he's biting on his bottom lip. Ryland doesn't know how to deal with the sudden, full-color visual of how Alex looks when he's close to coming.

Gabe twists Alex's arm behind his back as he makes another thrust inside him. Ryland recognizes Gabe's moves, of course. Gabe is an easy-going guy, but in bed he likes control; the flush of power; the satisfaction of making his lover beg. Alex bites his lip harder and then finally surrenders, letting his mouth fall open. He murmurs, "Please." Gabe twists his arm again, fingers digging into Alex's wrist, until he has him pinned completely against the wall. Alex's pleas are louder now, unconstrained, and Gabe is apparently satisfied, because he reaches around, finally, and uses his other hand to touch Alex's cock. Two strokes and Alex is coming, eyes screwed tightly shut, his words devolving into nonsense.

Ryland forces his feet into motion and leaves the bus before Alex or Gabe notices his presence.

 

*

 

He decides it's time to break out the big guns. Or gun, singular. Victoria sits on a patch of grass outside the venue with her skirt hiked up, basking in the last of the year's sunshine. He sits down beside her. New England seems to be holding its breath, hanging on to the mild weather with increasing desperation, before the bone-crushing cold sets in. This sunshine feels precarious—transient.

"What's up?" she says, pulling the earbuds from her ears.

"I just walked in on Gabe fucking my best friend and it kind of makes me want to punch things," he says. He hadn't exactly intended to be so candid, but it feels good to say the words out loud.

Victoria nods thoughtfully, as if she's a therapist and this is a problem many of her patients encounter. Ryland almost expects her to reply with, _and how does that make you feel?_

"Did you know?" he prompts.

"About Alex and Gabe?" she says slowly. "Sure… I had an inkling."

"An inkling?"

"Same kind of inkling I had about _you_ and Gabe." She gives him a sidelong look.

He makes a face and doesn't answer her. Yes, okay, he's a big fat hypocrite. He can't judge Alex for fucking around with Gabe if he does the same thing himself.

"This is why I have _A Rule_," she says. "I don't date boys in bands."

"Yeah, yeah, you told me already. Wanna explain why Nate hasn't slept in his own bunk in two weeks?"

She smiles. _Touché_. "Me and Nate are just playing. He's a baby. He wants to fool around with hot girls and I'm… amenable." She pauses to light a cigarette. "Hell, I want to fool around with hot girls, too. So we have that in common." Her tone puts an end to that conversation.

He reaches over and steals one of her Parliaments, even though he's quit smoking three times this month alone. He lights it and, for a while, they sit and smoke in silence.

Victoria starts to say something and then stops. It takes her another minute to reform her thought. At last, she says, "You and Alex never went out, right? Like… in high school."

"What, exchanged class rings and went to the alternative prom together?" Ryland lets out a single _ha_; it's not even a real laugh.

"I'll take that as a no." She pauses to take a long drag from her cigarette. "I asked Alex once. About you."

Ryland tells himself the tightness in his chest is just due to the smoking. "Yeah?"

"Don't worry, he didn't say anything incriminating. I just… I got the impression he was half in love with you. Back then, I mean. You were his great, unrequited high school crush."

"It's not like that with me and Alex." Ryland's voice sounds hollow to his own ears. "It's never been like that."

Victoria nods. She stubs out her cigarette and stands up. Her face reads, _the doctor is out of session_. Ryland remains where he is. What does _half_ in love even mean? He fights the urge to dredge up old memories and scour them for evidence of Alex's "great, unrequited crush". Instead, he thinks about what he will write in his next note.

 

*

 

It's a dumb note, all things considered. He and Alex were obsessed with _Buffy_ in tenth grade. They watched it religiously, holing up in Alex's room every Tuesday night to drool over Sarah Michelle Gellar and have pseudo-intellectual discussions about the political and social subtext of the show. (Needless to say, they were not the cool kids in school.)

Ryland finds a stray band flyer and scrawls the following on the back of it:

_"Sorry, that's incorrect, but you do get this lovely watch and a year's supply of turtle wax." (Buffy) The cure for ennui is a TV marathon and a fuckload of beer. You in?_

It's a dumb note, but Ryland doesn't care. He just wants to re-establish normalcy between them. He doesn't want to think about fate or love or anything except beer and Buffy. The status quo works just fine.

The lull in the middle of the day is collapsing into manic anticipation for the night's show. Ryland bounds up the stairs and onto the bus, looking for a place to leave his note for Alex. He experiences a moment of trepidation as he flashes back to the scene he witnessed earlier, but the bus is empty except for Nate, who's muttering about drumsticks and peanut butter, as if the two are naturally connected.

When Nate looks to him for an answer to his nonsensical quandary, Ryland shrugs and says, "Sorry, can't help you, man."

Nate wanders off and Ryland resumes his search for something of Alex's that he can attach the note to. Alex's journal is lying on the couch. Ryland reaches over to pick it up. He intends only to fold the note around it, but once it's in his hands, he hesitates.

_The truth is_, he thinks, transferring the journal from his left hand to his right and then back again, _Alex has been lying_. Sex with Gabe isn't a big deal exactly, but it's something Alex hasn't told him. And considering Alex usually tells him everything (including some particularly boring anecdotes about going to the doctor for asthma checkups), the omission feels like a lie to Ryland. He weighs the journal in his hand. A quick look, that's all. If Alex doesn't want him reading it, he shouldn't leave it lying around. Ryland has never tried to hide his lack of scruples.

He flips to the last filled page. It's an entry from yesterday and it's a long description of the dinner he ate at a Thai restaurant. Ryland can't help but smile.

"Seriously, Alex," he says fondly, "no one's that interested in your eating habits."

Ryland skims further down the page. There's a note about the pancakes Alex ate for breakfast today. Ryland is about to shut the journal when his eye is caught by a question, written in quick, almost sloppy cursive at the very bottom of the page.

_Hey Ryland, you like to watch?_

Ryland laughs out loud. Busted. On all counts. He feels a twinge of embarrassment, but mostly he's glad. He's glad that Alex knows that _he_ knows about him and Gabe. He's glad that Alex also knows him well enough to realize that if he leaves his journal out, Ryland will read it (and Alex doesn't resent him for this). The secrets and omissions have felt thick between them recently. Things feel marginally clearer now.

Ryland folds up the Buffy note and slots it inside the journal. Then, on the next clean page of the journal, he writes another note.

_Pervert. How long did it take Gabe to get to you? I hear he gets a waffle iron every time he seduces someone._

 

\---

 

** _Chapter 4_ **

 

Two days later, a waffle iron appears on the counter in the bus's approximation of a kitchen. It has a red ribbon tied around it and a card attached. The card reads simply, _for Gabe_, written in a carefully untraceable print. Ryland is pretty sure he recognizes the handwriting, though.

Gabe is utterly mystified, which is probably the best part. Mr _I-Can-Quote-Sartre-Even-After-Six-Tequila-Shots_ is rarely lost for words. He pokes at the waffle iron, as if concerned that it might really be a bomb. Then he says, a mite pathetically, "Does anyone know how to use this thing?"

All eyes turn to Alex, who smiles.

They locate a kitchen inside the venue. It's dated and dirty and probably hasn't been used for anything except boiling water in years, but Alex cracks his knuckles and sets to work like it's a gleaming palace. Alex is weirdly gracefully in the kitchen, turning out waffle after waffle. He rakes the hair out of his eyes and rolls up his sleeves. He looks less studied than usual; more like the Alex that Ryland knew in high school.

It soon becomes a party. Word spreads to the other bands and the kitchen becomes crowded, full of laughter, chatter and loudly chomping teeth. Ryland shoves another forkful of waffle into his mouth happily. Eating waffles is such a stupid, mundane thing, but the day feels infinitely better for it. He has positioned himself closest to Alex in the kitchen, his feet kicking idly against the cabinets as he leans against the counter. Ostensibly, it's to snag the freshest waffles first, hot and tasty. In fact, he has to admit that he's enjoying the proximity; the luxury of watching Alex do what he loves up close.

Alex flips another waffle onto a plate and Ryland reaches out to grab it. Alex's eyes flick upward, skidding over Ryland's face, but he doesn't meet his gaze. He just slops more batter into the waffle iron and says, very calmly—

"We should do that _Buffy_ marathon thing sometime soon. Find somewhere to rent the DVDs."

"Sure…" Ryland says slowly, between mouthfuls. He wonders at Alex's lapse: they don't usually talk about note topics, especially not in public.

Alex nods slightly and then continues, in the same even tone, "And just for the record, what you have isn't ennui. I don't think it has a name, but if it did, I would probably call it, _Shut Up and Quit Complaining_. Your life's fine—it's great. And if you don't think so, change it."

Ryland stares at Alex. He has to force his mouth to keep working at the waffle. Alex pauses to examine the waffle he's cooking. Ryland thinks he's done, but oh no, there's more. His delivery remains calm, carefully matter-of-fact—

"I don't know what you're into these days. Your proclivities are none of my business, of course. But exhibitionism isn't really one of mine, so I'd rather you didn't watch me have sex in future."

Ryland chokes. Alex's voice is pretty low and the room is loud, but suddenly it feels like everyone must be listening to him speak.

"And just so you know, me leaving my journal on the couch or on the counter or anywhere else on the bus is not an invitation for you to read it. I happen to know that your mother brought you up better than that."

Alex looks up, finally, and meets Ryland's gaze dead on. He seems to realize that the performance requires a conclusion, because he adds, "You fucking cunt." The lack of aggravation in his voice, despite his words, is astounding. He could be talking about the weather.

Apparently Alex is finished telling off Ryland, because he returns to his waffles, avoiding Ryland's eye once more. His hands do not shake as he turns out another perfectly golden-brown waffle. It takes Ryland several moments to find his voice.

"Well, thank you for telling me all that," he says. It comes out sarcastic (perhaps inevitably), but Ryland thinks he might actually appreciate Alex's candidness, finally.

"No problem." Alex's voice is still expressionless. He still seems much more interested in the waffles than in Ryland.

The two of them stand in silence, side by side, not looking at each other, for almost a full minute. Alex makes more waffles; Ryland uses his sticky fingers to trace patterns on the counter. Nate comes by to swipe a waffle. He asks Ryland a question, but Ryland barely hears it. Nate wanders away when he doesn't get a reply.

"Is there anything else you want to say to me?" Ryland ventures at last.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No."

"Do you want to apologize for calling me a cunt?"

"No."

Ryland is getting tired of this game. He wishes Alex would fucking _look_ at him. He wishes Alex would stop playing master chef for one fucking _second_. The waffle iron, which seemed like such a deliciously silly in-joke between them earlier this morning, is suddenly taunting Ryland. It reminds him of Gabe—or, more accurately, it reminds him of AlexandGabe. What did Alex mean by the "proclivities" comment? Who even uses "proclivities" in everyday conversation? He rubs a hand across his face. His brain has decided to replay the events of earlier in the week in burning technicolor against his retina. He realizes his desire to hit things has not exactly diminished.

"Look, would you fucking stop playing with the waffle iron?" he says and reaches out to shove it away from Alex.

He meant it as a joke, an off-the-cuff comment, but apparently he underestimated the force of his hand gesture. Instead of skidding a few inches, the waffle iron hurtles the length of the counter and falls to the floor. It breaks apart on impact, with a loud _crash_ that silences everyone in the room.

At least Alex is looking at him now. But then, so is everyone else. They're looking at him like he's a lunatic.

"Nice going, retard!" Nate says, breaking the shocked silence. "I wanted more waffles!"

Embarrassment stings. Ryland mumbles something apologetic that somehow doesn't make it out of his mouth as English. He turns away, facing the wall, willing the awful moment to recede.

Victoria clears her throat. "Hey, let's clear out, okay?" she says bracingly. "Give Ryland and Alex a minute alone."

Ryland knows she means well, but her announcement almost makes things worse.

Nate's reply, quick as a whip, is, "Why do we need to leave them alone? What's going on?"

Victoria drags him away, presumably intending to shut him up with an enthusiastic makeout session. (A heavy blow to the brain stem would also do the job, Ryland thinks darkly.) Slowly, the room empties and Ryland is left alone with Alex.

Ryland finally reconnects his brain to his mouth and breaks the silence awkwardly, "I'm sorry about the…" He gestures to the former waffle iron decorating the floor like a particularly poor piece of modern art.

Alex shrugs. "It doesn't matter. I could just make waffles on the griddle, anyway. Don't tell Nate that, though. I'm getting kind of sick of waffles." He cracks what could almost be a smile. "Not exactly haute cuisine."

Ryland deflates, sagging against the counter. The shame and confusion of the last few minutes have congealed inside him, forming a sticky, hard-to-place feeling in his gut.

"You ever notice," Alex says, still wearing the almost-smile, "how people who've known each other a long time never talk about anything new? They always just… refer back to old stories. Endlessly. Like… _do you remember this? Do you remember that?_ There's so much history, so many memories, it's like they can't be bothered to look too hard to find a future."

Alex's voice is warmer than before. He's also become tangential and vaguely inarticulate. But at least the robotic, carefully rehearsed Alex who accused him of voyeurism seems to be gone.

"I don't think that's true," says Ryland, frowning. "I think you can… evolve. Into something new. Change. And your friends can change with you." Even as the words leave his mouth, he wonders if they are true, if what he's saying actually can happen. He feels pretty set in his ways. How much evolution is he really capable of?

He's still thinking about it when Alex reaches up and kisses him. It's a small kiss, almost a peck, but for a split-second, Alex's mouth is warm against his own. When Alex pulls back, he looks strangely defiant. Ryland realizes that Alex is daring him to freak out.

His heart is definitely beating faster and the congealed-confusion has begun to flex, somewhere deep in his stomach. He's not freaking out, though.

"Are we… actually doing this?" he manages to say. It's not the most illuminating statement, but he trusts that Alex will get his meaning.

"I don't know." Alex blinks at him. "Are we?"

Alex reaches up again, cupping Ryland's face briefly and bestowing another over-before-it's-begun kiss on his lips. He pulls away again. Ryland watches as Alex drags his tongue slowly across his bottom lip. Alex's glasses-less eyes appear bright; his expression seems to be egging Ryland on.

Well. That's certainly something Ryland never knew about his friend. He's known Alex for more than ten years and he never knew what a fucking tease he could be.

When Ryland finally reaches for Alex, it's a motion not unlike his earlier destruction of the waffle iron. His passion is forceful, unexpected. Alex gasps slightly as Ryland clamps a hand to the back of his neck, coaxing his face upward. He urges himself close to Alex, their bodies realigning. It takes a moment for them to find the right positions. Alex looks up at him for a single second, his gaze intent through spidery lashes. Ryland returns his gaze and thinks again about all the old, well-trodden paths of their friendship. He wonders if they have a hope in hell of making this new part of it work.

The only thing to do is try, he supposes. Alex's eyes drift closed, anticipating Ryland's kiss. This is it. The moment of truth.


End file.
